Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this— swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles. We pull our boots on with both hands but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do is stand on the curb and say Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
And now there were only four people left to be sorted. “Thomas, Dean,” a black boy even taller than Ron, joined Harry at the Gryffindor table.